


Faith

by owlmoose



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Christianity, Churches & Cathedrals, Confessional, Gen, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:46:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmoose/pseuds/owlmoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam nodded at Steve. "You still believe, though."</p>
<p>Steve looked up at the dark stained glass over the door. An image of some saint, or maybe an apostle, arms outstretched in a sign of welcome. "I guess so. Maybe. It's harder than it used to be."</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Steve Rogers goes to church.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith

**Author's Note:**

> I was recently struck -- very powerfully, and I don't even remember why -- by the image of Steve walking into a church. This fic was the result.
> 
> Although I'm familiar with Christian beliefs and traditions, I'm not Catholic (raised Protestant, currently agnostic). I did some research before writing, but I still might have gotten some of the details wrong. Apologies for any errors, and corrections are very welcome.

The entrance of the church is dark and quiet, a stark contrast to the bright sunshine just outside, to the sounds of the street now muffled by the heavy wooden door. Steve takes a moment to adjust to the dim light and looks around the foyer, the layout strange but also familiar, kin to every other church he's ever seen.

He and Sam had walked out of the cemetery about an hour earlier, meandering down the streets of the neighborhood while he thought about what to do next. They'd sat on the steps of this church to take a breather. Steve looked up at the sign, noticed the stone walls, the stained glass, the steeple topped by a cross carved from granite. Not that different, really, from the church he'd grown up in back in Brooklyn. And something had drawn him to stand up, put his hand on the door handle. It was open, of course, but still he paused.

Sam looked up at him, shading his face with a hand. "You going in?"

"Thinking about it," Steve replied. "You Catholic?"

Sam shook his head. "Methodist. Well, raised Methodist. Now I'm not much of anything. I go home for Christmas, Easter dinner sometimes, but that's about it." He nodded at Steve. "You still believe, though."

Steve looked up at the dark stained glass over the door. An image of some saint, or maybe an apostle, arms outstretched in a sign of welcome. "I guess so. Maybe. It's harder than it used to be."

Sam gestured toward the door, then leaned back on his hands. "Go ahead," he said. "We're not in any hurry."

And so here he is, inside a church for the first time since before he left for Europe. Not that he'd been so good about attending services at home, either. But there was no time at all while he was fighting HYDRA, not even after he'd lost Bucky. He remembers walking past a church in London, blackout paper on the windows, on his way to the ruins of the pub; he'd thought about going in to light a candle, but God seemed very far away that day. Even further than He is now.

Steve approaches the font of holy water and wets his fingers before crossing himself, the motions automatic, murmuring the prayer without really thinking about the words. The church is empty but for a single figure, kneeling at the front altar rail; Steve makes his way around the edges of the sanctuary, passing the stations of the cross. He pauses at one and considers the small painting of Christ walking down the streets of Jerusalem, the cross heavy on His back, a single drop of blood beading on His forehead. Is it blasphemy to sympathize? Is it hubris for Steve to feel that same weight on his shoulders: the weight of the world, of the choices he's made, of Bucky's life and death and terrible resurrection?

He lowers his head and steps away. He came into this church for some peace, not for another quagmire of questions with no answers. The confessional is back toward the door, and he ducks his head as he steps inside. He sits down on the bench and leans his head against the wooden wall, reveling in the silence.

Next to him, a man clears his throat, and Steve starts, wondering for just a second if he's made a mistake. "Are you here for confession, my son?"

"No." Steve closes his eyes for a moment, lets the warm darkness of the booth envelop him. "Maybe." He takes a deep breath and sits forward, hands crossed across his lap. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been," he does the math and winces, "71 years since my last confession."

The priest pauses, so briefly that it might only be in Steve's imagination. "Continue."

"I haven't been to Mass since-- in a very long time." He thinks for a moment of all the other sins he could confess: the sinful thoughts, the small rebellions against doctrine, the sins of omission. Distractions, every one, calculated to avoid what he knows he must say. "I killed people. Too many people to count. Some I killed myself, with my hands or a weapon. Many others died indirectly by my actions, or my inactions."

He can hear the priest shifting position. "My son, are you a soldier?"

"Yes."

"Then surely you're aware of the special dispensation given to soldiers, when following legitimate orders to serve a just cause."

"I am." Steve pauses again. "And I try to avoid it, as much as I can. Only in defense of others or in self-defense, or when following orders. Only people who deserved it. And only when I had no other choice. Or so I've always told myself."

"But you are no longer so sure." The priest speaks with a trace of a New York accent -- Queens, Steve thinks, maybe Flushing. It's familiar, comforting. He could be sitting in the confessional at St. Boniface, back home. "You have doubts?"

Steve lifts his eyes to the darkened ceiling. "I thought I was fighting for one thing, and then I learned I was fighting for something else entirely. Something terrible. Something evil. It was all a lie, and I can't stop thinking about it."

"Did you tell any lies?" the priest asks.

"Not knowingly," Steve replies. "But I didn't look too deeply for the truth, either. I didn't know because I didn't want to know. I was arrogant. I thought I could step into darkness and not let it touch me." He lowers his head, closes his eyes. "I told myself it was okay to work with people I didn't trust. Because I was helping people. Saving lives. But when does that stop being enough? How much responsibility do I have to take for the evils they did?"

"Only as much as you are able to carry," the priest says. The bench creaks, and Steve looks up. He can just make out the priest's face through the screen, and he has a sudden feeling that the man knows exactly who Steve is. Or maybe he's just seen enough other soldiers passing through this booth, conflicted about the orders they follow. Steve can't be the only one to have these doubts. He finds the thought comforting, somehow. "God does not give burdens greater than a person can bear."

Steve sighs. "I wish I could believe that, Father."

"Mmm." The priest leans back, out of sight again. "Sometimes, faith is all that is required."

"So they keep telling me," Steve mutters. Peggy's voice echoes in his ear: _He died because he had faith._ Faith in what? In him? And that was supposed to make him feel better? Talk about hubris.

The priest is silent for a long time, and then he chuckles. "It seems unlikely, doesn't it? I don't mind telling you that sometimes I have a hard time believing it myself. But you must have some faith left. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here, in this confessional booth."

Steve can't help but nod. "Maybe you're right."

He can almost hear the priest's smile. "My son, there's a reason we say 'confession is good for the soul'. When we speak our sins, admit them aloud to God and another person, it makes them smaller, lighter. We aren't meant to carry the weight of all our sins, for all our lives. No one can bear that kind of burden, no matter how broad their shoulders are. Now, I could quote scripture and doctrine at you all afternoon to try and convince you of this. But will that help you truly believe?"

"Probably not," Steve admits. "I feel responsible. I always have."

"I could assign you penance, I suppose. But I doubt that several hours on your knees, repeating Hail Marys and Our Fathers, would make much difference either. I suspect you've already punished yourself enough. So I leave you with the following charge: stop carrying your burdens alone. Give them to God; or if He seems too far distant, then share them with your loved ones. If they care for you, they will help you, and share their burdens in return. But do try to remember that God is there, and closer than you might think."

Steve bows his head. "I'll try. Thank you, Father."

"You are welcome, my son. Please, pray with me." The priest begins an Our Father, and after stumbling over the English words, Steve switches to Latin and recites along, letting himself be drawn into the familiar ritual, the one thread he can trace back to his old life. They finish in unison, and Steve sits in silence a moment longer.

"Now go," the priest says, "and sin no more."

Steve leaves the booth and glances at the door with a mild pang of guilt for Sam, still waiting alone on the steps. Soon, he promises himself. In a few minutes, he'll step outside and join him there, try to follow the priest's advice. If he can share the load with anyone, it's Sam. But not yet. Instead, he sits in a pew near the back and bows his head again, closing his eyes, doing his best to hold on to this moment of peace for a little longer.


End file.
